Damaged
by MarvelGeek
Summary: Clint was whole. Clint was fine just the way he was. He didn't need both arms! Yet he still felt the need to wear it...to wear the stupid prosthetic arm. To be 'normal'. Amp!Clint


Damaged

Clint dragged himself into his room, the highest in the tower. He had opted for no bed and instead slept on a mattress in the middle of the floor. A mattress that he collapsed on gratefully. He felt like utter shit. He was sweaty and covered with crusty dried blood and was openly dreading having to get himself undressed, exhausted as he was. He let out a heavy moan as he rolled over and reached a tentative hand towards his left shoulder, reaching for the straps to his prosthetic arm.

Once he finally detached the stupid hunk of metal and plastic from his stub, he resisted the urge to toss it at the wall and instead let it fall from his fingers and hit the floor. He hated the stupid thing that wasn't good enough as a real arm. His calloused hand rubbed over the tiny, barely two inch long stub that was where his arm should be, while fingering the long puckered scar that formed a 'U' shape across it.

He remembered the day he lost his arm, quite well. Even though he didn't remember the pain itself, he remembered the metallic smell that filled his nose and the way he felt light headed. He remembered the way Barney's screams echoed around the room and how he tried to beat their father back and away from Clint. But most of all, he remembered the bloody butcher knife that that lay on the floor next to him as he bled out. The knife his father had used to try and saw his arm off.

By the time a sixteen year old, Barney was able to rush him to a hospital he'd already lost too much blood and the doctors had to do emergency surgery to remove his practically severed arm. The six year old had woken up nearly twelve hours later, shirtless and groggy with a ton of bandages wrapped around his skinny torso to hold the packed dressing on his arm stub, still and motionless.

That was also the year that he and Barney joined the circus together. It was at the circus that he learned how to shot a bow with only one arm. He had maneuvered it perfectly, using his thighs to hold the bow steady and letting his good arm do its job. After what seemed like years of practice, he perfected his technique and became a circus act. 'Hawkeye, the one-armed archer'.

When he joined SHIELD, they gave him a prosthetic arm. It took him a while to learn how to shoot with 'two' arms, but when he did, the years of aiming practice took hold and he had the best aim in SHIELD, probably in the world. But he still hated the prosthetic, it felt wrong to wear it and he wished with all his might that he could just go without.

The prosthetic itself was a metal structure, covered in plastic 'skin' to make it look more real. They told him, when they first gave him the arm, because the remaining part of his arm was so short that mobility would be 'limited'. Well, wasn't that the understatement of the century. He could barely lift the arm level to his shoulder, and any fine motor skills, like holding things, were impossible. And it didn't help him when shooting so he just wore it for cosmetic reasons.

When he wore it, he felt 'normal'. The only one on the Avengers who knew about his 'disability' was Natasha and the only reason she knew was because of Budapest. Long story short, he ended up getting shot in his prosthetic arm. That caused a heap of other problems that led to Natasha finding out. She was always bugging him to tell the rest of the team.

Clint pushed himself up and out of the bed. Getting ready to start the grueling process of removing his sticky clothes from his body. When a voice greeted him from the ceiling.

"AVENGERS ASSEMBLE!"

Clint groaned and bent down to grab his prosthetic and strap it back on. They'd just finished a battle, what was the problem now?! He muttered to himself angrily as he began to strap it on. His stub was already irritated and red from wearing his prosthetic for long periods of time without a break, but he didn't really have a choice, now did he?

-TimeSkip-

"Hawkeye, do you copy?!"

Clint didn't even jump at the starchy sound of Steve's voice though the comm in his ear and he was quick to answer, shooting in midair as he did so.

"Loud and clear, Cap!"

He answered then his eyes widened as he saw multiple blob things start attacking Tony who was fighting in his suit a few roofs away. Clint didn't even think as he hurried over to the genius, dodging the blob things himself as he did so.

"Move, Stark!"

Clint bellowed as he drew back his bow to fire, Tony's eyes focused on Clint in surprise as he knocked the arrow. Then the archer's left arm was swallowed into the mouth of one of the blob things. Clint just gaped at it, wondering what the fuck it was doing, but when he saw the corrosive acid that was seemingly burning his prosthetic arm, he realized. The thing was seriously trying to digest him! Oh hell no!

Clint without even thinking, reached for the straps on his arm and quickly pulled it off of his stub. Then he did the very thing that he'd been doing since he was a young child. He threw himself to his knees and used his thighs and knees to substitute as his left arm to shoot his bow. He was off in a flash, shooting explosive arrows like there was no tomorrow.

The strange gloppy blob things exploded from the contact with his arrows and ended up covering him in sticky glop. He honestly, for a moment, wondered if it was really worth it to get this disgusting.

Then once all the creatures were gladly destroyed, the team met up with Clint and just openly stared at him, more specificity at the stub that was once his left arm.

'Oh shit. This was gonna take some explaining...'


End file.
